Sketches
by Isolationistmagi
Summary: A collection of one shots organized to give an introduction to each of the wardens that I might potentially write about.
1. Sketches

**Solaryn Mahariel**

The roiling black and red sky slowly churn overhead as the dragon's head comes thundering down upon the roof. The darkspawn pause, their sudden dread almost pitiable. Everyone is silent. Mahariel looks up and at Alistair and winks. She then looks back to the archdemon as she raises the blade high to come thundering down upon the dragons head to make an end. To make an end to everything.

This could have been avoided if she had been more convincing with Alistair, but there is nothing for it, save that he had offered to take the blow himself. She isn't about to allow that. Even if she lived, where would she go? She wants no place in the order that has torn her from her people, nor amongst the people that so willingly let them take her, and what sort of fit would she be amongst humans? Or dwarves? She could wander, but there would be no purpose in it. It goes too far to say that she wants to die. To say that she doesn't care, that does her justice. From the future she wants nothing, eternity in comparison…

There is promise in that. Hahren Paivel always said that Falon'Din guided the fallen to the spirit land in the beyond.

The air around the blade ripples as it soars straight and true towards its mark in the dragon's neck. She thinks about Tamlen as it falls. The early days spent in an absolute bliss so long ago, she misses those. Maybe she will know something like them again soon. That would make her happy. She knows the others, especially Alistair, will be hard hit by her loss, but they will heal. Everyone will heal, and then it should all be easier for them.

A lock of hair falls in front of her eye as the blade, death rendered steel, flies into the monster's neck to steal the last of the life from it. The spirit of the Old God tries to force it out but she stands firm, holding it down as the spirit tries with ever increasing panic to cast out the blade. It is futile. The resistance abruptly stops and there is the briefest moment of absolute stillness. She smiles.

One elf dies, one king lives- a fair trade.

She isn't sad.

**Marvane Amell**

The light plays off the dark bald head and cool brown eyes as he kneels before the altar, praying. He is normally the type to keep his faith internalized, but with the landsmeet so near at hand, that is no longer enough. A faith in the wrongness of his adversaries has guided him ever since leaving the tower, but that faith is no longer there. He cannot simply brand Loghain a villain to be put down. The man has won Marvane's respect, and this complicates things beyond measure. To dispatch a simple villain is easy, to stand against a foe that is not only respected, but understood, that is many times harder.

The Hero of River Dane...

He convinced the man's own daughter to turn against him, but he himself would rather not oppose the man. There is irony in that. He thinks about the true plan, to use Anora to gain support to oust Loghain only to put Alistair on the throne anyway. And here he is praying to the Maker to make that course easier, what a model Andrastian is he...

Still, it is something to draw comfort from. He realizes the hypocrisy in praying to the maker to help him defy his teachings, but by the same token acknowledges that such a thing is necessary for the greater good. Surely there is a redeeming quality in that? He isn't convinced by his own question, so he adds another layer to his prayer. He now prays for the maker to aid him in doing what is necessary, and then to forgive him for it.

He wishes there was another way, but even if there were it is too late to change the course of events. He doesn't want to stand against a man he respects, but that is what he must do. He wonders if anyone else in his position ever found commitment to their selected courses this hard.

A hand on his shoulder startles him and he looks up, the tattoo over his right eye apparent to see. He is looking at Alistair, who asks him if he is ready to head to the landsmeet. He says he is, but he is and has been a terrible liar.

**Meghren Aeducan**

Blood soaks into the stone. He wasn't even aware stone could do that. Pathetic for a dwarf, in all honesty. None of this is his concern though. Trian is dead. Trian is dead, and nothing points to who killed him. That meant one thing and one thing only- a setup. There was only one person he suspected of that- Bhelen. Bhelen was in the deep roads with Endrin. That meant they would be here soon.

He wants to run, to hide. It's not that easy. One cannot just turn and run when faced with such reality as this. He never liked Trian, but neither did he want this. He needs to move, he knows this. But he won't. He can't. He's there for only a brief time before he hears it:

_Hurry father, before it's too- _

Silence, Meghren looks up. He sees it in Bhelen's face. He did this. Then it occurred to him what Bhelen meant by it. Bastard. Clever fratricidal bastard. Meghren did not play in the game of politics. This did not hinder his ability to see a brilliant play. He respected brilliance. He detested Bhelen.

Endrin is kneeling beside him, he looks up into the King's face. He sees the pleading look in his eyes, but cannot give answer. He has always been stoic, and that cannot change. Endrin looks at the body of his dead son. _By the ancestors, what happened here? _

Meghren too looked at Trian. A knot formed in his stomach. Yet still he was expressionless. _He's dead. _He said simply.

Endrin shakes his head and looks at him. _Tell me this isn't what it looks like. _

He looks Endrin in the eye. His own words are entirely insufficient. _I assure you it isn't. _

There is a brief discussion. Gorim affirms his statement, both of the scouts lie and say he is the killer. Looking at Bhelen he is not surprised. He can see that his brother is trying not to smile. How long had he been planning this? Not that it matters now. He looks back down at Trian. Whatever the plan, it is working. He would not be surprised if he was already convicted of the charges against him. He is curious what Bhelen intends the sentence to be. Something permanent, no doubt. Probably death. He knows that is what he would do. If he were Bhelen, that is. He isn't.

He is chained and ordered to stand up. He makes himself two promises. First: his father will know his innocence. Second, and less important: If he lives, Bhelen is going to die.

He doubts he will have the chance to see either of them through. That is entirely outside of the point.

**Faren Brosca**

_The Angel of Death card, the game is over. _

Faren looks at Isabella and smiles as he lays down his hand. Well, technically it isn't. She stares at it, incredulous, as she lays her(his) cards on the table. _Those... those are my cards! _

Faren smiles even more as she stares at his hand, incredulous. She goes on to say that she doesn't know how he did it, but she is impressed and will teach him her skills. Faren can feel the disbelieving stares of his companions as well. Winning feels good. He decides. Back in Dust Town he rarely ever knew the feeling, mostly because he was Beraht's lackey. Best part? He doesn't need to give his winnings to that cave tic. Yep, winning feels good. Almost as good as the truth of how well his skills have served him since he first went topside as a Grey Warden. Oh, if Rica and the others could see him now!

He comes to an abrupt decision he sees no harm in. _I'll tell you how I did it. _

She raises an eyebrow. _And...? _

_You made it easy for me. _He pauses for effect. _We ran out of ale, you were the only one drinking. I had the advantage. _That was the first rule of being in the Carta, always be more alert than your opponent. _I could see you going a little bleary-eyed-you still are, by the way- and decided to take advantage of that. My cards were terrible, so yours had to be better. _First rule of living in Dust Town: if you don't have it, someone else does. The only thing that matters is if you have the stones to take it. Or was that his father's rule? Doesn't really make a difference. He shakes his head and continues. _Anyway, when you were distracted wondering if Alistair would give you a tumble, (he won't) I simply took your cards and gave you mine. Simple. _

_You're quite a talented thief, then. _She remarks.

_True. _

She smiles despite her obvious annoyance at his arrogance. _And you knew my cards were better... how? _

He leans in and laces his fingers together. _If you're going to stack the deck, you should really be less obvious about it. _

She raises an eyebrow again. _In any event, we should get to it. Think I might avenge my pride at the expense of a few marks on that handsome face. Artfully done scars are very sexy. _

He chuckles. _I have a rook tattooed on my forehead. You think I care about a few cuts? _She looks puzzled. _Apparently you've never played a game of chess, or lived in the Orzammar Slums. _He explains. He does wonder sometimes where Leske got the board. That, and where he learned the rules.

**Alaris Surana**

_That is your offer? _The poor lighting forces Alaris' face into a very dark and foreboding visage, the tattoos upon it only adding to the effect. Not that it is bright at the best of times, but this hardly should be considered comforting.

_It is. _Replied Caladrius. _Even you have to admit that it's better than resorting to barbarism, mmm? _

A fury is present behind his eyes as he replies. _This is your offer to a man whose people have been oppressed for countless years, and spent his life in the circle, a cage little better than what I've heard Tevinters do to their slaves? _

_Oh yes, that is my offer. It's all that is economically feasible, I'm afraid. _

Caladrius doesn't recognize the tell tale signs that his adversary is nearing the edge of his restraint. _Tell me then Caladrius, how you expect me to decide in what order I should abandon the principles of my life. _The words are cold, biting, not at all dissimilar to the man who speaks them. A dark man to look at, and very hard to see the good nature behind him.

_Oh dear, is it to be violence then? _

A savage grin pulls across the elf's face. _Against you? Oh yes. I'm going to enjoy this. _

Caladrius is not worried. The four are outnumbered, even if the elf and the black-haired woman are mages. This should be easy. The elf leaps over the railing and suddenly explodes into a swarm of insects that flies to the nearest man and quickly reduces him to nothing. Caladrius pales. Maybe not so easy.

It is a short fight. Afterwards the swarm of insects pulls itself back together and reverts to its natural state. _I hate it when you do that. _Remarks Alistair. Alaris doesn't reply. Leliana begins offering thanks to the Maker, citing some canticle or another. _Do shut up. _Alaris says bluntly.

She looks taken aback. _I thought you said- _

_We've been through this before, Leliana. I do believe in the Maker, I do not believe in the chantry. An entity that kills in the name of a name is not truly a holy institution._

There is no response, Alaris looks at the dead slaver. He is glad at the mans end. It's fitting. The Maker may wish for forgiveness over retribution, but in this case retribution is the more akin to justice. Were it his choice, he would have done more. Some men merit more than death in penance for their crimes.

**Ilmaren Tabris**

_You are refreshing to be around, you know that? _

Ilmaren looked into Morrigan's sharp golden eyes. _Oh? How so? _

_You don't moan insistently, you're somewhat intelligent and I don't want to vomit whenever I look at you. _She said airily.

Ilmaren tried hard not to laugh. _In other words, I'm not Alistair. _He looks over his shoulder to make sure Alistair is still far enough back not to hear.

_'Tis true, you're not. _

_Well, never you worry. That won't change. I was born handsome, I have a lot of common sense and I have more than enough tricks in my bag to turn squalor to paradise. _One could not bear living in an Alienage their entire life without at least a few tricks. He thought meditatively.

_You've said it before. _

_Well, then I won't repeat myself a third time. _Is his answer. He wonders how the others are doing. Cyrion, Shianni, Soris. He does not envy their position. There is certain to be an uproar in the alienage after what had happened a few short weeks ago, maybe even a revolt. He hopes nothing like that will happen, but conditions had been ripe for one when he left...

He thinks about that. As much as he dislikes the humans that keep the elves caged there, given the choice to go back in time, he wouldn't change a thing. Fully aware that his past made him who he is, he would gladly leave it be. He may have grown up in squalor, but it had not truly been so terrible. Now here he is, something so much more than he ever thought he would be. He owes it to the surrounding depravity that until recently had defined his life. Yet, by the same token, he wishes such a background on no one else. If he ever finds himself back in Denerim, he will prove to the humans that elves are worthy of respect. And then the Alienages might come to an end.

In becoming a warden, he has already taken the first step to that goal.

He turns his head to look further down the road. For now he'll have to be content with dispatching these bandits outside the looming village. Lothering, is it?

**Nalia Cousland**

She stares at Howe. Howe glares at her. She is standing. He is not. Her eyes are a fiery blue. His are an icy and vaguely surprised brown. Honor is her highest virtue. He doesn't know what that is. She is fair and gentle to her friends. He is ruthless to the men he manipulates. She is living. He is dying. She hates him. He hates her. Mutual hatred is the absolute limit of their commonalities.

There is so much she wants to demand of him- so much she wants to know, but there simply is not time. More than anything, she wants to know **why. **Why this asp betrayed his friend and killed her family. Why he has done any of the terrible things he has done. But she is denied this chance, as the man seems dumb while he stares up at her. He barely musters the strength to speak his last words.

_Maker spit on you. I... deserved... more. _

And now he is dead. Nalia's hand turns white on the Keening Blade as she looks at the corpse. She almost restrains herself, but then decides that she simply does not care. She furiously cleaves off his head with a single swift stroke and it rolls across the floor. It falls into a drain and a soft splash is heard some moments later. The wailing ethereal pitch the blade cries when swung echoes around for a long time. When it finally subsides she closes her eyes and a single tear rolls down her cheek. _Yes, yes you did. _

She could have that man's head again and again until the Maker called all the world into paradise, and he would still deserve more. She had never known hatred, not until that night at Highever. She had always tried to show mercy, until now. Standing there in the silence, aware of the fraying nerves of the other three, it occurs to her that the two never exist simultaneously. She pulls a filthy rag from a small pouch at her waste and cleans the sword without opening her eyes, aware of the faint chill and humming that emanate from it. Perhaps that is for the better. She continues cleaning it long after it glimmers in the dark. It is uncertain on what criteria she deems it suitable to be returned to its scabbard.

As she sheathes the blade her heart rises a bit as she thinks of her family. At least they are avenged, if nothing else. She hopes that Bryce, wherever he may be, does not fault her for hating Howe so virulently for so long. Suddenly finding the dungeon too bleak and oppressive, she turns and abruptly leaves, muttering to herself. The others follow her, having long since learned to drown out the sound of her tallying her steps.


	2. Duncan and Solaryn

**Duncan and Solaryn**

Duncan sat by the fire with a tired look on his face and a certain soreness in his bones. He wasn't as young as he used to be, that was certain. There was a time when killing the darkspawn in those ruins wouldn't have even made him break a sweat. Now... it taxed him far more than he was prepared to admit. He wanted to sleep, but by the same token didn't want the nightmares. They had been worsening, even before the Blight had begun, now they were becoming absolutely unbearable. He knew he would go to his calling soon, and would more likely than not meet it during the Blight, foregoing the tradition of a lonely march into the Deep Roads. Better to die then plunge into the dark rather than the other way around, he supposed.

He sighed and his shoulders slumped noticeably as he looked at the elf sitting alone in the distance. At least there was one potential guaranteed to survive the Joining, which would leave the number of wardens in Ferelden more or less unchanged if he or someone else died. Not the most comforting thought, but good enough for the situation. Of course, it wasn't an absolute guarantee that she would survive, but he would give a darkspawn a flower basket if she didn't. It was near inconceivable for anyone to be nearly killed outright by the taint, only to be up and fighting again in a matter of days, and not survive the joining. That, along with her obvious skills as a warrior and sheer willpower, made her an ideal candidate.

But there were of course problems, not the least of which being that he was absolutely certain that she hated him, and fairly certain she hated her tribe too. He even knew why, though he had been far from forceful in his request, she had somehow instantly perceived that she had absolutely no choice in the matter at all, that she would be taken by force if need be. He understood why she would hate him for that, why she would hate her people as well. It was tragic, but he knew she had to work through that at her own pace. He would try to help, he owed the other wardens a ready recruit, and he owed her some sort of explanation. Something beyond the generic spiel on the duties of a warden and why they were necessary.

He stood up and walked over to where she was sitting, and she pretended not to notice. He was used to that, she hadn't said a word to him or anyone since leaving two days ago. He had told her all the basics of being a warden, but nothing confidential. She hadn't reacted, so he had no real way of knowing whether or not she was even listening. He sat down next to her, and doubted that she did so much as look his way. _I know this isn't easy for you. _

Well, a barely perceptible nod was better than nothing. _They only want what's best for you, and you'll be helping them. Every arm against the darkspawn is needed. _She didn't react to that and he sighed. She wasn't likely to understand the necessity regardless of what he said. Had he not observed her in the cavern, seen that fire in her eyes when searching for her clanmate, he would not believe her to be the same woman now. Hopefully she'd find the will to fight again the next time she met darkspawn, else the trip would have been both a waste of time and of a life.

_If it means anything to you, this wasn't my choice either, not at first. _He paused, unsure why he was telling her this. He thought about the warden he had killed, and the events that had led to his own joining. But again, she didn't even bat an eyelid. He didn't show it, but that made him angry, and prompted him to give up. He stood up and walked away. Moments later he was sitting in front of the fire again. He knew he was pushing the wrong way, considering that she was a woman who had been faced with too much too quickly and wasn't coping well. No, not even a woman, barely more than a girl. Regardless, he needed her to be ready. He sighed, perhaps he had made the wrong choice in going to the Dalish, maybe Orzammar would have been better.

Solaryn looked over her shoulder at Duncan, and saw the way the light played off him, rendering part of him in shadow and another in light. He didn't notice and she looked away slowly. She didn't care about darkspawn, or about her clan, or anything else. She was simply... numb. There was nothing in her, and anything would be better than that.

She looked at the grass at her feet without seeing it as her eyes filmed over with tears that she refused to let fall. She noted her hand and the ring upon her finger, the parting gift from the keeper. She held it up to see it better and studied the carved animals on it. Her gaze lingered on a wolf for a moment, and it stared back at her. At the same time she became painfully aware of the weight of the heirloom necklace upon her neck.

_You should have left me. _She said in a choked whisper. She wasn't referring to her recruitment.


	3. A Moment in Redcliffe (Nalia)

_**A Moment in Redcliffe (Nalia)**_

The drunken militiamen talked and boasted of their victories in the corner, the bartender Lloyd polished a mug with a rag too filthy to clean anything, the elf Berwick kept to himself in his corner, and Nalia sat at the table contemplating the ruin of her life. No one joined her, most being intimidated by the woman in glittering steel with a fine blade at her side. It made her sad, she had always found that hardship was easier to face when she wasn't alone.

But that was why she was here wasn't it? To speak with the Arl? To convince him to see Howe to justice in the stead of the late king? Little chance of that, with Loghain having declared himself regent and the arl's evident sickness. It was convenient wasn't it? That everyone who could oppose the Teyrn's rise to power- the king, Eamon, her father- were being killed off at just the right moment? Her fist grew white around the mug she was clutching at the frustration of it. She couldn't kill Howe, not alone- she couldn't even get near the man. But everyone who could was either against her or dying. And that was to say nothing of the monsters.

How or why walking corpses had started pouring out of the castle was beyond her, but it certainly meant that the arl was now dead, and that far worse things were afoot in the village. When Tomas had told her the arl was sick and the village was under attack, she had had a mixed reaction. She had been tempted to march straight to Amaranthine and throw herself at Howe, consequences be damned, but she knew she couldn't leave these people to die. Vengeance wasn't worth that. She had lost everything to Howe, he had turned her life into a cinder of its former self, not quite completely destroyed but unable to decay any farther. She wouldn't treat life with the utter lack of respect that that man had shown. She wouldn't do that, even if it killed her.

And it very well could, there were certainly enough walking corpses pouring out of the castle nightly to see to that. But if she did die, it probably wouldn't be so bad. She couldn't avenge her family of course, but she could at least be with them again. Had they not ordered her to run that night, she might even be with them now. Had she not been forbidden to stay, she would have fought to the death in defence of all that she loved. Oh well, things hadn't happened that way. She had run by their order. She had watched the smoke rise from the castle in the night sky, and she had hung her head and cried as everything was destroyed. She had been beaten that night, but she wasn't broken, not even close. She wouldn't be in Redcliffe if she was.

One of the militamen had evidently gotten bold in his excess of alcohol and called shrewdly out to her in a truly pathetic attempt at seduction. She smirked to herself and slammed the mug down, but other then that pretended not to notice. Whether she showed it or not (she did) she was frustrated by her position, and didn't care overmuch if a fight came her way. The man yelled out more incessantly and she continued to ignore him. Then he stood up and started to walk over. _Oi! Missy! I's talkin' to ya!_

She looked up and stood up, standing taller than the man by at least the width of a hand, but he didn't seem to notice. _Yes? _She asked in a conversational tone as the man got close enough to stand face to face with her. The man smoothed out his manner some and asked him how she would like to go back to his house and share a bed with him.

She laughed and flatly told him to go back to his drink, at which point he became more insistent. She remained calm as the man became steadily more angry at her refusal, even though the altercation was starting to turn a lot of heads.

_I'll not be having any fightin' in here miss Nalia. _Shouted Lloyd from the bar and she looked at him. _Does this look like a fight to you? _She asked calmly as the militaman reached out to try and grope her.

She looked at the man only after catching his hand and throwing it down. _I don't want to fight you. _(Not entirely true, but true enough.) _But if that's what you want I'd rather we step out so that we don't get blood on Lloyd's floor. _

The man said something along the lines of _crazy bitch_ and resentfully trotted back to his fellows, looking like a kicked puppy. Nalia looked at Lloyd as she shrugged and sat down. _See? No fight. _

Lloyd grumbled and gave a curt nod. _You've been helping us a lot lately and we're grateful, but I don't want people trashing my establishment. _

To which Nalia's first instinct was to call him a pig. She knew he didn't care about anything other than his pub, and had a good mind to teach him a lesson in priorities, but what was the point? Fighting wouldn't help anyone in the village. And she needed to help them, every bit as much for her sake as for theirs. She couldn't be idle.

Some time later she stood up and walked out of the bar, tallying her footsteps as she went as she always did. When she came to the lake front she pulled her sword from its scabbard and scrutinized every inch of the blade to ensure it was in good condition and clean. Satisfied she replaced the instrument of death and sat by the lake, pondering her position. She couldn't chase Howe because she'd never reach him. She couldn't reach him because she was alone, she was alone because everyone who could help her was somehow in grave peril before she could reach them. It angered her to no ends, but she was beginning to realize that vengeance for her family might never come. She didn't think too long about that though, and instead shifted to the more immediate and more comforting task of thinking of ways to defend the village in the coming night's battle.

Howe was out of reach, but at least she had this to occupy herself with. She thanked the Maker for that. With the alr dead but without these people to defend, she would have no idea where to go- let alone why she should go there.


	4. On Politics, Fatherhood and Fratricide

_**On Politics, Fatherhood and Fratricide**_

_I hope we win too. _Said Meghren solemnly as the discussion on the raging election came to a close. Alistair seemed perplexed, while Lelianna seemed speechless. Not even Wynne had much to say. Clearly they had not recognized just how much of his personal motives were tied up in this. Harrowmont gave an understanding smile that wasn't political. He always had been a kind man, though placed in the wrong profession. He wasn't sure how good of a King Harrowmont would make, but he couldn't be worse than Bhelen.

Harrowmont began giving directions to the rooms they could sleep in and Meghren listened with keen ears. The others stood to leave the study, but Meghren remained sitting. _May we discuss another matter? _He asked calmly, giving only a small indication as to the importance of the matter. Harrowmont nodded and Meghren looked up at his companions. _Please, leave us. _No one asked questions, presumably because everyone knew the next conversation would be personal. Alistair was the last to leave but Meghren called his name. The man turned around with an awkward look on his face, like he thought he was about to be asked to stay at something he really shouldn't be involved in- a nude ball, perhaps. _Make sure the others know where we're staying, will you? _

_Okay. _He said with an exaggerated simper._But there'd better be a big wedge of brie here when I return. _

_Brie? _

_Exotic Orlessian cheese, very popular amongst the nobility. _

Meghren chuckled as Harrowmont shook his head. Alistair certainly knew his cheeses. _We'll see. _Alistair smiled teasingly and walked out of the study, letting the door drift shut behind him. After that there was silence as Harrowmont took a seat across from Meghren at the low table they had all been conversing at not long before. He looked at him expectantly and Meghren reposed a bit in his chair. _Don't suppose you have brie? _He asked in a jovial manner.

_No. _Harrowmont said with a heavy sigh. _Drink? _He seemed to produce the flagon and mug full of dwarven ale from nowhere. Meghren nodded appreciatively and took the cup. Harrowmont poured himself a cup next and was about to take a drink when Meghren stopped him. _A toast. _He said quietly. _To Trian, and to my father. _

Harrowmont nodded and the two drank in silence for a time, lit mostly by a purplish fireless lamp hanging above the table from the ceiling. Behind Harrowmont's desk a small stream of lava flowed slowly beneath an immaculately carved grate, and that stream kept the room comfortably warm while lighting the far wall in a comforting orange. Books lined the shelves of the room, and upon Harrowmont's desk sat innumerable papers, most of which were presumably related to laws being warred over by the assembly. The pair were on to their second round by the time Harrowmont broke the silence. _How've you been? _

Meghren studied the cup in his hands, a deep and sad look in his eyes. _It's been hard, but I'm alive. _He thought about the way most of the city had reacted at the mere sight of his face and smiled. _It's nice that someone here doesn't despise me. _

Harrowmont nodded. _There are others who believe you're innocent, and they're helping me dispute Bhelen's claim, but there will always be those who don't believe it. _He sighed.

_Did my father know? _Meghren let the question hang, knowing full well that Harrowmont knew exactly what he meant. It brought him a great deal of comfort when Harrowmont nodded, it meant he had kept one of his promises at least, even if he would never see his father again. So that just left one, but this wasn't the time for that. Meghren set down his cup and Harrowmont asked if he wanted another. He paused, then nodded. He lifted the cup to his lips, but then gently set it down. _I need a more personal payment for my help. _

Harrowmont raised an eyebrow and Meghren quickly shook his head. _Not like that, I wouldn't dream of usurping your generosity. But... _He trailed off and looked at the bookcases on the wall, trying to think of how best to voice his request. In the end he decided the direct route was best. _This isn't about money. There's a casteless girl, Mardy. She's the mother of my child. _

He looked at Harrowmont and, seeing he was at least not openly judging, continued. _Tradition dictates they be adopted into my house, but that's not possible. I want you to adopt them into House Harrowmont. _

Harrowmont refilled his own mug and pulled a deep drought before replying. _It won't sit well with the Deshyrs- and if I anger them before this is over, I won't be able to help you at all. _It was hard to tell whether or not Harrowmont was giving more than a political answer.

Meghren leaned back and sighed. _I understand. But I had to try. _

Harrowmont leaned forward and looked at Meghren earnestly. _After this is over, I'll be happy to help you. _

_Thank you. _The two fell into relative silence after that. Meghren would occasionally hold out his cup for another round, but Harrowmont was careful to do little more than nurse his own. After a span of what felt like hours the room saw Meghren notably drunk, with his eyes all out of focus. As if satisfied with a particular level of inebriation, he carefully thudded his cup onto the table and reposed in his chair. _I don't blame him you know. Bhelen. _

Harrowmont was silent until Meghren looked at him. _He killed your brother for power. _

Meghren laughed. _That's the world though isn't it? Anyone who wants to go anywhere follows a path paved by the bones of others. Bhelen's just trying to realize a vision the only way he knows how. _

Harrowmont stowed away the flagon and reposed in his own chair. He tailored his response to indulge Meghren's musings, even though his instincts told him Bhelen only wanted power. _You think he has a vision for this city? _

Meghren nodded. _Sure. He used to talk all the time about reforming our society. He wanted open trade with the surface, abolishment of castes. He even opted for a casteless woman over the fine ladies of Hightown. _He paused for a moment then laughed halfheartedly. _I suppose we both did that in our own way huh? Anyway... Bhelen has visions Harrowmont. Visions his old position would never allow, so he changed the position. I can respect that. Like I said I don't blame him. _Throughout the entirety of his words his voice was rather sober, subdued even. Like it was being checked by the weight of the thoughts that may not have wanted to be spoken.

Harrowmont noted that hesitance, and it made him curious. What was more remarkable though was how free the man was being with his words, the Meghren Harrowmont knew could barely be pressed to say more than ten at a time. Oh well, drunkenness often brought a certain liberty of tongue. _If you could decide Bhelen's fate, what would you do? _

… At first, it seemed as if Meghren had not understood the question, or not heard it. Harrowmont didn't prompt him though, and eventually Meghren's lips parted and he gave answer, in a firm tone that meant there were no doubts behind it. _I intend to kill him- I've promised myself that I'll kill him. He deserves justice... I deserve justice. For Trian... for me. Trian was a bastard but call me a blighter if I didn't love him. _

_Bhelen's your brother too, you don't have to be the one to kill him. _

_But I do. _He replied definitively. _He's my brother, I think he wants to do good for the city, but he's a terrible man. Anyone who, who would destroy his family for the sake of ambition- that kind of person has no soul. They don't deserve a place in this world. _

Silence fell in thereafter and Harrowmont thought about the man that was sitting across from him. There was an interesting dichotomy to his character- the way his belief in the brutality of the world weighted against the way he hated people that knew how to play by that world's rules. He didn't blame the man at all for wanting to kill Bhelen, but if he did it himself- wouldn't that draw an interesting parallel to Bhelen's own actions? Where Bhelen was willing to kill his brother for power, Meghren was willing to kill his brother for revenge. Some would argue that the given circumstances made Meghren the better person, but to Harrowmont it was a distinction without a difference.

He called the dwarf's name quietly, but he had fallen asleep in his chair.


End file.
